


Fire

by MaladaptiveNinjaReturns



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Monsters, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaladaptiveNinjaReturns/pseuds/MaladaptiveNinjaReturns
Summary: Monster hunting leads the Witcher to run into an old acquaintance.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Kudos: 105





	Fire

The forest speaks of life untouched from every corner. It's a beauty put on display where the souls of prettiest birds and strongest animals live. The chaos flows through here too, like every other being, just a tad bit powerful in the green freedom that smells of the stream flowing in the heart of this place and soil that provides for the progeny of mother nature.

"Ah, the colours!" Jaskier is on his toes as he walks amid this allure. "If only I could put it to words. Oh, wait-"

"Jaskier," Ciri stops him right there, "let us enjoy the peace before your...talent breaks out? Hm?"

Jaskier's open mouth taps shut, wondering if Cirila was actually questioning his true calling. "Very well, as the princess wishes, she shall have."

"Just a little quiet to breathe in a forest, Jas. I've walked through many but I haven't had the privilege of appreciating them before."

This, Jaskier understands. It hasn't been easy for this young girl after all. But ever since destiny brought her together with Geralt, he has seen the Witcher turn younger, smile a bit brighter and even soften a blow or two on Jaskier whenever he was being a pain in the ass.

"Tell me, your highness-"

"Jaskier," she stops the bard right there.

"Tell me, Ciri. Tell me all you see and what it makes you feel. This bard's ears are open to all."

Ciri smiles. Her bright eyes wander everywhere there is to look. “The greens, Jas. The green soothes the soul. The green of the trees, the grass, the moss-covered rocks over there. It brings a certain calm, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm,” Jaskier smiles, nodding in agreement.

“The sounds bring a certain peace to the mind. Both the sound of silence and the music of the animals hiding in plain sight. I can even hear the stream flowing from here. Though I wonder which bird is singing this tune.”

“A bird either looking for a mate or just trying to show off in my presence.”

Ciri giggles and stops on a dirt path while Jaskier looks up at the tall trees, trying to look for the source fo the sound before cupping his mouth and returning the call.

“The spider!” the little one whispers, making the bard guffaw in return.

“Who finds a spider amusing?! Oh come on Ciri now you’re just pulling my le-oh.”

All colour drains from Jaskier’s face as he watches the eight-legged monstrosity, twice as big in height, watch the two humans with its protruding beady eyes.

“Fuck,” goes the bard, frozen in the soil with his only friend’s destiny by his side.

.

“I bet ten.”

“I twenty.”

“Ay! Bugger off ya cunts. I wager me wife tha’ wee Witcher won’t return alive. I’ll sell me horse if he returns dead eh.”

The crowd in the pub bellows at the rude auction over the Witcher’s life. The barmaid rolls her eyes at the pathetic men gathered under her roof while they sent a stranger to fight monsters haunting their lands, and the same time insulting that poor sod all under one breath.

“Ay Tommy!” she shouts, already quieting down half the pub, “if ya questioning that man why doncha drag your wrinkled balls inta the mountains and fight off that devil yerself, eh?”

Tommy giggles into his mug of ale. “Oye, calm your tits, Reba, yer own ale seems to be rubbin’ off on ya.”

“Oh, my tits are pretty fine, unlike yours, Tommy,” Reba smiles from the counter, “at least that’s what yer wife tells me.”

Tommy’s ego takes a hit, forcing him to get up while the rest of the village howls at the insult Reba has so casually tossed his way. Right before he sets his mug down, a severed head of a beast resembling a cursed boar lands with a loud thud on the table, shushing the crowd within a mile radius. Poor Tommy’s pants bear the burden of his cowardice for staring into the eyes of a still shaking behemoth, his legs trembling while his eyeballs have to force themselves away. In doing so, he locks eyes with the embers piercing through the muck that covers the man standing in front of him.

“I would like my payment now,” the familiar hoarse voice speaks from the muck, and one by one muted gasps go around the room as realisation dawns on the crowd that they among the few getting a chance to witness the witcher right after a hunt.

.

“Do not move.”

“How. Can I. Not. Mooooove.”

“Jaskier!”

Their whispers are frantic even without the amplitude. The long ghastly legs take one step long enough to cover half the distance between them.

“Do you think we can outrun it?” Jaskier asks the princess. The latter’s eyes have turned two shades lighter, a wrinkle of unpleasantness running up her back.

"I think it'll spare us if we stay here like statues." Ciri gulps, the words coming out more like a question.

Jaskier does standstill, but the fear seems to disbalance the bard’s gravity, making him take a step back and crack the dry twigs placed by his fate right under his trembling feet.

The crack loud enough for the spider to draw out its fangs towards the duo, its legs ready to launch itself towards its fresh lunch.

"Run," Jaskier spills out, taking Ciri's arm, "Run! RUN!!!"

If the Gods that made this bard could communicate with him right now, they would point at the poor footwork that leads him to fall due to the same twigs- despite having years of experience running away from raging kings and lords. On top of it, they would smack their palms to their face for the bard takes the princess down with him too. Eventually, they would look away and pretend to not know this creation whilst their handiwork screams with the intensity of a two-year-old.

Ciri, who has the ability to do away with danger, is left frozen at the sight of those beady eyes running towards it. The fear seems to paralyse here in the ground, making her forget the chaos she holds within, looking at the face of death and wondering how quick will it be.

The sting never comes. Instead, a black cloud thunders and growls, swishing away with the spider, taking that screeching monstrosity away from the princess and the bard.

Ciri is the first to notice the black wolf while Jaskier is still on the ground with eyes closed, crying, "I don't wanna die! I can't die! I'm too young to die!" The princess witnesses the creature snap and growl at the arachnid, bite it where it hurts, take a hit in the shoulder and still bare its fangs at the eight-legged skeleton.

It is a battle worthy to be written in the royal parchments and saved in the castle library. But more than that is the relief and the strain of worry that comes over the princess when she sees the wolf break off two of the spider’s legs, forcing the still screeching ghost to limp away faster than it had come looking for some fresh meat.

Ciri taps Jaskier, her eyes still stuck on the huffing wolf that is looking in the direction of the enemy’s escape route. Jask whimpers before Ciri taps him again, making him sit up and watch what she is watching.

“I thought there was a spider here,” the bard merely lets out a whisper.

The wolf turns to watch the two- its black fur being stroked by the forest wind as a reward for doing something good- for a long moment before limping on its way back inside the forest, disappearing just like it had come; without a trace.

.

The little leather pouch falls with a thud on the table right next to the Witcher’s much-needed pitcher of ale. The smell of lilac and vanilla reaching his nostrils tells him who it is and even though he wants to, he is too tired to look up and address the visitor.

“Yennefer,” he hums, taking one big gulp of his drink.

“Witcher.” She welcomes herself to the seat opposite him, something the rest of the pub finds quite intimidating as they spy the two from the corner of their eyes.

“I do not have what you wa-”

“There’s a wolf in the next village-” she does not bother with whatever he has to say- “that has been killing men and women and luring children with some powerful magic. I want it. Alive or dead, whichever way you prefer.”

Geralt smiles inside his mug. “The journey must have been quite troublesome for you to make. Coming all the way here from your high thrones to look for some animal. And I don’t hunt animals.”

Yennefer does not show any emotion. She blinks. Her back is straight as ever, her eyes are looking down at the Witcher with piercing judgment set in a stone face. “That wolf is not some ordinary animal, Geralt. That animal has some power. Some face of chaos and I want to find out what.”

“Hmm.”

Breathe, Yennefer tells herself, trying her best to not slap this bastard right there. “What? It killing humans is not enough motivation for you? Okay-” she leans on the table, her fingers intertwining themselves- “there was another attack that happened near that village a few minutes ago. Now, isn’t that the same village you left your beloves bard and adorable Goddaughter?”

The mug stops mid-air, right before reaching his lips. He finally looks up at Yennefer, letting the weight of her words fall onto him. “Do not play with me like that, Yennefer.”

And Yennefer just raises her brows and smirks at her Witcher.

A moment passes by in silence.

“Fuck,” goes the Witcher, standing up and walking out to his horse while Yennefer takes the pitcher to pour herself some and lean back with a sense of victory.

.

“Are you coming from the forest?”

A voice calls out the terrorised bard, who feels his body jolt a little before being put at ease by the face that walks towards them.

“There was a huge spider in there,” Ciri blurts out, her eyes still wide from shock.

You step outside your porch with the blanket ready in your right hand, draping it around the girl. “You should not go out there without some tools, love. It’s a dangerous place. All kinds of monster live in there.”

“Well, one of those monsters saved our life so it wasn’t that bad,” Jaskier chuckles. You and Ciri look at him with a shade of confusion.

“What is a beautiful place like you doing in a dangerous girl like this?” He continues, and the shade of confusion turns into a judgment mocking this man’s audacity.

“Forgive him,” Ciri interrupts, “he is still in shock.”

“I hope so,” you answer, directing both of them inside your house. “Rest here. The sun is about to go down. Best if you leave in the morning.”

The house is a simple place, to begin with. The table and four chairs are a warm welcome as the guests enter. Ciri cannot help but smile and touch the white wildflowers sitting in a chipped vase right in the centre of the table. Jaskier is more focused on the garlic, rosemary, thyme and mustard hanging upside down from the support that divides the humble dining room and kitchen.

“I just prepared some stew. Here-” you put the pot down on the table and gather three bowls and spoons- “help yourselves. You look like travellers. You must be famished.”

Turning back to get the bread from the counter, your shawl slips and Ciri sees marks of a wound on your left arm right before your other hand quickly covers it up with the shoddy fabric.

“Have you always lived here?” Ciri cannot help but ask, her eyes stuck on the hidden arm before you turn around.

“More or less, yes.” You smile at the princess, keeping the bread down and offering the strangers a seat at the table.

“Is not dangerous out here? To live at the edge of the forest?”

You break a piece of the bread in your plate biting on it. “The animals avoid coming to the edge.

“But is the village not a better place to live in? With other people? Does it not get lonely?”

The chewing stops for you- not as much for a hungry bard, who is nose deep in his bowl of vegetable stew- and your eyes seem to reminisce something. “I used to live in the village.”

Ciri watches as your fingers turn the piece of bread around in your hand, tearing away small bits into your plate. “I came from an honourable family who would dine with the ministers in the king’s court. My family would keep up the charades of the rich at such balls to get away with their reality. And they did not prefer me shunning their ideologies. I was forced to attend one such ball so they could find me suiter. Unfortunately for them, the men there were concerned with bedding me than taking me for a wife. One of the knights tried to get his way, forcing me to his chambers to rip me off my honour until I burned his room down with him in it.”

The table is still now. Even Jaskier has stopped chewing to hear you out.

“Our family was kicked out of there for my actions. I was shunned by my parents and then the village for bringing shame to the village by killing an honourable knight. Therefore, here I am-” you smile, get up and bring the ale back to the table- “living at the edge. Oh, some animals are friendly here. Like the dogs and cats of the forest who visit me for food.”

Ciri takes your hand in her. Her starry eyes filled with tender and resolve. And some chaos you had never seen before.

“Seems like a village that does not know how to differentiate between a monster and a sensible beast.”

You could not help but break into a smile, giving a gentle squeeze to her hand.

“You should meet my friend,” Jaskier breaks the tender moment between you two young women with a mouthful, “I have a feeling you two will get along quite well.”

.

The journey back is not made within the light. And it only when the sun has been hidden completely beyond the mountains that Geralt and Roach reach the village. The inn where his companions were supposed to stay houses travellers looking for food, a warm bed and some fine tits to keep them company. The innkeeper tells him the girl and that weird boy went to the edge of the woods for a stroll, making Geralt dash without so much as a word for the innkeeper short of the day’s rent. It does not leave his observational eyes the fences made at the edge with fire torches lit to keep whatever was in that darkness at bay. 

Roach’s galloping is the only sound heard till he reaches the middle of the forest, where the winds bring with them a faint noise. A noise of something in pain; followed by a crackle and a pop.

Getting down, he rubs the fingers of his left hand together to create a wisp of light that illuminates his surrounding for five meters and lets his eyes fall on two severed limbs of an arachnid lying next to where he stands.

“Hmm.”

His hand is ready on the sword. His ears on alert. He shoulders shift a little before he turns to face the beady eyes that are leaning back to get ready for attack. But this time limbs are not the only thing it loses.

.

Blood. Sweat. Arachnid mucus. This is what the Witcher is covered in when he lands his sword in the ground to stand up and take a breath.

“I know you’re out there,” he declares into the air.

A soft breeze through the trees brings with a scent. That of a dog. Or something resembling one.

“You have killed a lot. Or so I’ve heard.” He turns around to watch the pair of glowing eyes look at him through the mesh of darkness before stepping into the light the Witcher has somehow stabilised over the hilt of his sword. “Speak in your defence.”

The wolf stops two feet in front of Geralt, its head held high in the breeze; the forest stroking it whenever it gets the chance. One moment it sighs and the next, much to Geralt’s surprise, the legs fold and the head goes down in an offering. A sacrifice.

The forest goes silent as if it is in shock for the first time, not knowing what to do.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” A familiar voice calls from behind Geralt. “Off with its head!”

_ Yennefer _ . Geralt cannot help but roll his eyes.

Before he can open his mouth to speak, another shout comes from the other side of the forest, this time even taking the wolf by surprise.

“Geralt! No! Geralt stop! Do NOT KILL THE WOLF SHE SAVED US!!”

Poor Ciri skids down the dirt hill with Jaskier following her and does not stop till she is standing right next to the confused wolf.

“Ciri, what are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in the village with Jaskier.” He ends the sentence with a poisonous look at the bard, who shoots up his hands in defeat and dropped mouth trying to concoct words in justification.

“She is not any ordinary wolf. She is a woman. She offered us food and protection when we were in danger. Do not kill her, Geralt!”

“Oh please!” Yennefer shouts, “that wolf is a guardian of the forest that has chaos inside it. All you need to do, Witcher, is kill it and let me do with it whatever business I need to do with it.”

“I’m not going to kill her, Yen,” Geralt declares matter-of-factly, taking the witch by surprise. “So stop pushing your wishes on me.”

“She has killed hundreds of men, Geralt,” Yen shouts at the utter disbelief of the Witcher not following her wishes. “Do it or I will.” Her palms are already up, ready to create wrath.

Geralt steps in front of the wolf, his sword taken out from the ground, ready in his hand.

“Stop before you have innocent blood on your hand, Yennefer.”

“Oh since when did you start protecting monsters?!”

“She is not-”

Geralt stops midway when Ciri’s hands are pushing his arm to get his attention. He watches the horror lacing her eyes and instinct makes him turn to the direction she is looking in, to see a woman stand naked with tired eyes looking at her wounded arm in mild shock.

“Oh shit,” she whispers before her eyes roll back and her body goes limp, the gravity taking her down before Geralt breaks her falls.

Jaskier notices the shift in Yennefer’s emotions once she sees the woman. And without another word, she creates a portal and leaves.

.

“Ciri,” Geralt calls, his eyes still stuck on your face losing its colour while his arms support you, “how far is her place?”

“It’s right next to that bend.”

“Run and boil some water in the kettle. Take my satchel and grind the herbs in them. I’m right behind you. Jaskier, go with her.”

Alone with you, Geralt calculates that he has very few moments to stop further spread of the poison in your body. His little pouch on his belt gives him the short term cure in a little bottle- something that he drips in your mouth and pushes down your throat. 

Next, undoing his armour to take off his shirt, he pulls it over you, covering you as much as he can, before rolling up the sleeve to watch where the wound lies.

The other bottle’s contents are emptied on the wound, hissing as the liquid meets your charred bloody skin, making you groan in pain even as you lie unconscious.

Picking you up, he gets on Roach- who did his bit by getting down and making it easier for the two of you to get on his back- and rides at the speed of the wind to get you home.

.

The first thought you have is how dry your throat feels. The next is the coldness mixing with the heat of your body on your forehead, easing the discomfort a little. The last thought is of a warm skin your hand rests upon. And just with that one simple intrusion, your mind floats back to the forest to those pair of ambers looking at you with a hint of annoyance before diluting into concern.

Your eyes open to watch your room’s window open wide, letting the night’s breeze in. The forest trees sway in the distance, under the full moon, swaying at you with delight. A candle burns on the drawer next to you, another on the trunk. Both of them are enough to light up the rugged face of the Witcher resting next to you on the lone chair in your house with armrest.

You watch- in awe- the rising and falling of his bare chest. His silver hair, filled with the grime of whatever new monster he has battled recently, falls graciously over his face. His hand holds yours loosely, as if in prayer. He is a vision to be captured and put on a pedestal to put the rest of the Gods to shame. And yet his face swells your chest with a latent heat of pain.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance, Geralt,” you whisper with a tear falling from your eyes to travel into your ear.

You rub the back of his hand with your thumb, the mere touch of his skin breaking dams that were lost to the darkness and their weak memories.

“You didn’t kill me when you had the chance,” Geralt whispers, his eyes still shut, “it was only right for me to return the favour.”

Your muted gasp makes him turn his head towards you and those eyes made of fire look at you with the utmost tenderness the world could ever produce. “You haven’t changed at all, y/n.”

Your name from his lips is a sweet stab right to your heart.  _ He remembers _ .

“Of course I remember you. No one forgets their first friend.”

“You haven’t changed at all either, Geralt,” you smile at him, the tears never stopping whilst your fingers entwine in smooth dance. “Still saving the weak from every monster you can.”

“I learned from the best,” he declares softly, taking the entwined hands to point at you. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Then why did you leave?”

The question leaps out from nowhere even though Geralt knows it is inevitable. The smile that had been growing wider on his lips now seems to fizzle out.

“Y/N-”

“The truth, Geralt. If you respect me still, you will tell me the truth.”

He curses himself. For a Witcher made of multifold stamina and strength, his heart aches the same way as it did when he was human.

“I was afraid you would see me the same way as I see myself.”

You look at him with a stonecold stare for a second, something that makes him quite uneasy where he sits. “So that daughter and that bard are travelling with you to be your last meal on earth, I suppose?”

Geralt furrows his brows before he realises how easily you mock him. “Y/N-”

“You can leave now,” you announce, getting up and finding yourself in a stranger’s clothes smelling of musk and sweat, “thank you very much.”

“Stay on the bed, Y/N,” Geralt begs, getting up from his chair, “I’ll get you whatever you need.”

You take in a lungful and put your feet on the ground, getting up with the support of the next thing your hands could grab. “I am fine. Don’t worry.”

“O-of course, I worry! You are not fully healed yet. Please, get back on the bed.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I still love you!”

Your legs wobble and your arms reach out for him and Geralt is ready to catch you before even you know you are falling.

His arms wrap themselves around your waist and you let yours go around his neck.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” you whisper, watching the light come back to his eyes. Those very eyes now watch your lips as they get closer to his. You can feel the tension in his body through his hands that dig into you to draw your closer to him.

It is a soft touch of the lips that begins the kiss. A tender offering to the souls having suffered the famine for quite some time. The softness then turns deep when it remembers the old flood gates rumbling to let their spirits out. A chaste run of the tongues and the gates shiver before finally letting go. Tears flow down through weary eyes, hearts grow lighter and their souls burn brighter.

Pulling apart to breathe the cold air of the night, you want to drown in that soothing fire that is in Geralt’s eyes.

“I love you too.”


End file.
